


Theirs

by writeitininkorinblood



Series: I'll Pray For You [5]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Fluff, Gawain thinks he's wrong, Lancelot doesn't think he deserves to be happy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26434009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeitininkorinblood/pseuds/writeitininkorinblood
Summary: Lancelot had never really thought of himself as anything other than a guest, a visitor in Gawain's life. Gawain couldn't disagree more.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: I'll Pray For You [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870960
Comments: 5
Kudos: 137





	Theirs

When Gawain had first seen the notorious Weeping Monk, practically mocking him from under that dark hood, all shadows and intensity and poise, he had never for a moment thought that the same man would end up sat cross-legged and pouting in the middle of his bed, wearing a shirt he’d definitely stolen from Gawain’s small selection. It was, quite frankly, adorable, and it was almost enough to convince Gawain to abandon packing to kiss him until he forget why he was so moody, but the hunting party he was leaving with would be waiting and he was already late as it was.

Lancelot almost certainly didn’t even realise he was pouting. He was just watching as Gawain went through what he’d packed one last time, hating the thought of the man leaving him. It was only for three days – a longer than usual trip to gather as much meat as they could so it could be salted for the winter that was quickly creeping up on them and would be sure to send many of the smaller animals they relied on to feed the camp into hibernation. It was important, and potentially dangerous, since they were going further away from the camp and into what could be Red Paladin territory. He couldn’t ask him not to go, but he hated the idea that Gawain could get hurt. And hated the idea of being left alone.

Gawain had volunteered to go almost immediately, wanting to help protect the party from potential Paladin threats. Lancelot’s own offer to join had come quickly afterwards but Nimue had shot it down seconds later, not about to send both of her best fighters out and have no one left to help defend the camp in an emergency. One of them could go, but not both, and Gawain preferred the idea of Lancelot staying with Pym and Squirrel and Nimue, who wouldn’t under any circumstances let anyone hurt him. The same could not be said for the Fey on the hunting trip. An expanse of empty forest would be the perfect place to ambush and finally dispose of the Monk, claiming it an accident and all supporting each other’s story. He wouldn’t risk it, all but refusing to let Lancelot go.

“It’s three days,” Gawain reminded him gently, packing the last few things he needed into his bag and pulling the cord tight. “I’ll be back before you know it.”  
If anything that just made Lancelot pout more, his raised eyebrow highly indicative of how much he questioned that statement. Of course he was going to miss Gawain. Who else would he eat meals with, spar with, wake up beside? Gawain was such a central part of his life with the Fey that he struggled to imagine navigating the camp without him.

Now the packing was done, Gawain granted himself five minutes to say goodbye to his lover. He was working on carving out moments where he didn’t have to be the Green Knight and he could just be Gawain. Dropping the bag by the opening of the tent, he crawled onto the bed beside Lancelot and kissed him softly, until all trace of the pout had been erased by the tiny hitches of Lancelot’s breath as Gawain’s fingers snuck under the hem of his shirt. It wasn’t going to go anywhere, Gawain didn’t have that much time, but he couldn’t help himself. When he pulled away he found the pout replaced by the familiar small, contented smile that he was the certain he was the only one to ever see.

“I need you to stay safe, okay? Don’t let anyone antagonise you, just walk away. You know they just goad you so you’ll lash out and they’ll be able to complain about you. Please don’t give them the satisfaction. I very much need you here when I get back home,” Gawain smiled softly, reaching out for Lancelot’s face and brushing his thumb over those dark tears.

Lancelot leaned into the touch, covering Gawain’s hand on his cheek with his own, but even as he did he still raised an eyebrow sceptically.

“Why does this feel like the kind of speech you gave to Percival?” he asked flatly.

“Oh, it is,” Gawain laughed. “With a few minor changes. I didn’t think you needed to be told not to launch any solo rescue missions in the heart of the camp of the enemy. But just in case, please don’t do that either. I really do need you to be here, safe and well, when I get back, my love. You’re all that keeps me sane these days.”

Lancelot didn’t have a reply for that, he just buried his face against Gawain’s neck to breathe him in before he didn’t get the chance for a whole three days, sighing happily when he was pulled properly into an embrace. He wasn’t looking forward to sleeping alone, when things wouldn’t feel warm and safe and all-encompassing the way they did when he was in his knight’s arms.

“Can I borrow a blanket?” he asked, the words half muffled against Gawain’s neck.

It seemed like a simple request; the nights were getting cold and he still didn’t really have any bed linens of his own; but Gawain pushed him gently away to look at him with confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

There were at least three blankets on their bed at any given time. One covered the mattress itself to make it more comfortable, they’d curl up together under a second, and a third existed for when Lancelot, so used to sleeping alone all his life, ended up stealing the second and wrapping himself up it in and Gawain was left blanket-less and cold. There was certainly no necessity that he could see to acquire another.

Lancelot flinched. Maybe the request wasn’t so simple after all. Maybe he didn’t deserve a blanket of his own, even temporarily while Gawain wouldn’t be using them and his own mattress, still pushed into the far corner of the tent, was bare and cold. But Gawain had him fixed with a steadfast look that Lancelot knew from experience meant he wouldn’t be allowed to change the subject until he explained what was going on in his head.  
“Those first few months, before you invited me into your bed, you lent me a blanket and I just… It’s getting cold,” he mumbled quietly.

It was then, with the way Lancelot was gesturing over to the long-abandoned mattress in the corner, that Gawain realised what he was suggesting. Technically, it was Lancelot’s bed. It was where he’d first slept when Nimue had ordered Gawain to keep an eye on the Weeping Monk for at least the first few days until they came up with a better plan. They never did and Lancelot had never moved out of Gawain’s tent, but he had moved from the thin, lumpy mattress that had once been surplus from the healers’ tent into Gawain’s bed, which there was no doubt was better made and far more comfortable, even without considering the man he loved sleeping beside him. That had been months ago and Gawain had since never once thought of that mattress in the corner as anything other than an errand he had never gotten around to.

“You don’t have to go back to that mattress, my love. This is your bed,” he explained, taking Lancelot’s hand and squeezing tight.

It wasn’t the answer Lancelot had been expecting. He blinked, almost certain he’d misunderstood, as he let his mind run wild with the idea of being allowed to stay in Gawain’s bed, which was so much warmer and softer, with pillows that smelled like Gawain’s hair and extra blankets to pile on top of himself to simulate the weight of Gawain’s arm around him so he could still feel safe enough to get some sleep in a camp full of Fey who still didn’t unanimously accept his presence.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, convinced he didn’t have the right to such an image.

“It’s your bed as much as it’s mine,” Gawain promised. “These are all yours too, you don’t need to borrow them.”

He picked up a blanket from where Lancelot had neatly folded them that morning, and shook it out so he could wrap it around the monk’s shoulders, adding another on top before draping the third over his head like a nun’s habit so he was completely cocooned in the fabric, looking both bemused and exasperated from underneath the pile.  
“If I hear from anyone that you slept on a thin mattress we should have returned to the healers’ tent months ago, with one paltry blanket, I am going to set Pym on you. And Squirrel. Understood?” Gawain threatened, well aware of Lancelot’s tendency to self-punish.  
“Yes,” Lancelot promised, and he found himself meaning it.

“This is your home. You are not a guest. We share this tent and this space and this bed. And I would not for one moment have it any other way,” Gawain insisted.

He pulled Lancelot in for another kiss, laughing against his lips as he struggled to shake the blankets off so he could properly return the affection. Gawain knew he was definitely late and that the rest of the hunting party might very well all be waiting for him, but they could give him another thirty seconds before he had to make the switch back from Gawain to Green Knight. If nothing else, Lancelot probably wasn’t about to let him go anyway, not until he’d said a thorough goodbye.

Lancelot just held him fiercely, overwhelmed with how permanent it all sounded. Sharing a bed, a home. Gawain had made space for him in his life so easily and so naturally that it brought tears to his eyes. Everything the Red Paladins had ever given him was treated like a loan, like something he should be grateful they were allowing him to use, but Gawain hadn’t thought twice about handing over so much of his heart, and everything that came with it. And Lancelot was going to protect it with everything he had, until his dying breath, because it was all _theirs_ and that word alone seemed sacred. He could make his peace with Gawain leaving for three days, so long as he came home to _their_ home afterwards.


End file.
